Clive Cussler - Wrath of Poseidon

So much for his detective skills. If there were any clues to be found, he wasn’t having any luck.

Outside, Nikos led Sam across the courtyard to a set of stairs that led up onto the roof, giving him a view of the entire beach. A boy sat on a wooden dock to the left, fishing. A half-dozen moored boats of various sizes bobbed in the water just beyond him. “What about Dimitris?” Sam asked. “Where was he staying?”

“At home. With me. Unfortunately, no one saw either of them after they left. I’m not sure if you knew, but Remi’s camera was stolen. My nephew, Ares,” he said, nodding to the boy at the end of the dock, “was fishing from a skiff that morning. He told us that there was a strange boat in the area. Sadly, he didn’t see who was in it.”

“Do you mind if I talk to him?”

“Of course not. His English is not so good. But he’s learning.”

They walked to the end of the dock to talk to the boy. Nikos introduced them, adding, “Remi is Mr. Sam Fargo’s friend. He’s worried about her, and wants to know what you saw.” He repeated it in Greek, then translated the boy’s response, saying, “A speedboat driving away from the Asteri . He’s never seen it before . . . They’re not from around here.”

Which didn’t help. “Do you know what kind of boat?” Sam asked.

The boy drew his pole back, then flicked it forward in a perfect cast as Nikos translated. “Long and fast. For racing. There was a name on the side, but it was not written in Greek, so he couldn’t read it. Which,” Nikos added, “there are many of around the islands.”

Sam thanked Ares for his help. About to leave, he looked back at the boy. “Any chance you could draw the boat you saw?”

Nikos asked him, then nodded. “Maybe.”

Ares secured the hook upon the reel, tightened it, then set his pole on the dock. When they reached the beach, he jumped down into the sand, smoothed out a portion with his hand, and traced an outline of the boat, saying something to Nikos, who said, “It was long and dark, like this.”

Which didn’t narrow it down any, Sam thought, watching as the boy made a circle on the side of the boat, along with a few scribbles. As he drew, he spoke to Nikos, who in turn, said, “This is where the name of the boat was written. And the numbers.”

He drew the letter O , then poked his finger where the rest of the letters were, Nikos saying that he couldn’t recall the name. Then he added the numbers 1 and 4 .

Sam did a double take. “What color was that boat?”

Apparently the boy understood that, because he said, “Black.”

Sam, wondering if he could have transposed the numbers, crouched down beside him, writing OMEGA 41 in the sand.

The boy nodded, speaking rapidly.

“That’s the name,” Nikos said.

“I may know where it is.”

Nikos glanced at the crude drawing, then at Sam. “You can tell from that drawing?”

“From the name and the color. It was heading toward a yacht in between here and Samos. Had I known, I would’ve paid more attention.”

“The police will want to know this.”

“Let’s make sure the yacht’s still there before we call. The more information we can give them, the better.”

They hurried back to the port. Within fifteen minutes, they were motoring away from Fourni toward the waters of Samos.

“There!” Sam said, pointing at the superyacht he’d seen earlier that day.

Nikos lifted his binoculars. After a few seconds, he handed them to Sam. “If that is the same yacht, I’m not sure the police can help. The Mirage belongs to Adrian Kyril.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“There are those who believe that the billions the Kyrils have made from exporting olive oil really comes from their ties to organized crime. The rumors are unproven, mostly because no one can get close enough to the Kyrils to prove anything.”

Sam studied the yacht through the binoculars. In his mind, a vessel that size had far too many places to hide hostages. And if the Kyrils were, as Nikos said, part of some organized crime family, Sam suspected that once the police boarded—and failed to find Remi or Dimitris—it’d be the last anyone would see of either of them.

He immediately called Rube to update him on this newest detail. “How long until you can get a team out here to rescue them?”

“Through the proper channels? Tomorrow at the earliest. There’s a team in Italy. How sure are you that she’s on that boat?”

“Does gut instinct count?”

“Between you and me? Yes. To my bosses? Before they commit any resources, they’re going to need some firm evidence to back that up.”

“I can give them some once I’m on board.”

“Do me a favor? Let me see what I can do before you do anything that gets you in trouble, which then gets me in trouble.”

“Keep them on speed dial,” Sam said. “If you don’t hear from me by morning, send them in after me.”

“Fargo, do not —”

Sam disconnected. By the time Rube gathered the necessary intel to put together a rescue operation, their window of opportunity might be gone.

“What did he say?” Nikos asked. “Can he help?”

“He can get a team out here by morning, if we can get evidence they’re on board.”

“That’s a long time from now. And how do we get evidence?”

“Too long, and we get it the old-fashioned way, in person.” Sam took one last look at the yacht, then lowered the binoculars. “Which is why I plan on going in after dark.”

Nikos nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. If it goes wrong, I’ll either end up dead or in jail. Someone’s got to make sure to tell Rube what happened. Then, make sure someone follows up.”

“But—”

“If I know you’re here to do that, I’ll be able to concentrate better.” He looked at his watch. A little after seven. “We have a few hours to get everything we need. First thing on the list, a very fast boat.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Remi, hands zip-tied in front of her, had her ear to the door, listening, while Dimitris, cuffed in similar fashion, searched the tiny cabin. Until ten minutes ago, they’d been held down in the tender garage very near the same speedboat they’d been kidnapped in. She wasn’t sure why they’d been moved to the small cabin one deck up. She was, however, grateful, since now they had water and a toilet, and no longer had to call out for a guard to escort them to the head.

During their time below, their captors hadn’t bothered to give them food or water, which told Remi they probably weren’t interested in how they were faring. No doubt their being thrown in this tiny cabin was more a matter of convenience for them, not their prisoners.

After standing at the door, she heard footsteps, then heard one of the guards saying, “Ilya’s on his way.”

That was a name she hadn’t heard before.

“Found something,” Dimitris said.

“Someone’s coming.”

She hurried to her spot on the floor. Dimitris stepped out of the head and sat next to her as the door opened. A guard stepped in, his hand on his pistol. A second stood just outside, his posture straightening as a third man finally walked up and entered the cabin. Several inches taller than the other two, he had dark curly hair, and a thin mustache covering his upper lip. He wore a charcoal gray suit and a white shirt, open at the collar. The sheen of the material told her this was not something off the rack. The fit told her it was definitely custom-made.

Ilya, no doubt.

He took one look at Dimitris and Remi, then spoke to the lead guard in Greek, asking, “Why are they here and not down below as usual?”